


this space between us (it’s nothing but stardust and the absence of you)

by SmilinStar



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-10-29 05:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10847634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: OrClose Encounters. Five times Rip and Sara find themselves stuck together and somehow managenotto make out, and the one time they (finally) do . . .





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Lol this is just an excuse for me to write the tropiest fic full of tropes. I’ve separated it out into six parts, cos the first part ended up being more than the 500 words I was planning. Oops. Please read. Please enjoy. And maybe let me know? :-)

 

] I [

**1534, Hampton Court Palace**

**London, England**

\-----

 

Rip’s found himself in tight spots many times before.

One could argue it comes with the territory. A renegade Time Master barrelling his way through history in pursuit of an immortal tyrant was never going to be a risk-free endeavour. Close calls and near misses were woven into the tightrope he navigated for years. Years before he recruited this mismatched, aimless, wandering crew of his.

But this? This, he believes, is the first time he’s found himself in a tight spot quite so _literally._

It’s an awful place. Dank, dark and dirty.

To be fair, given the fact they were hiding out in the labyrinth of underground tunnels of Hampton Court Palace in the year 1534, he couldn’t have expected any differently.

And the reason for their current predicament?

_Well._

“You just had to draw attention to yourself,” he gripes under his breath.

“It’s not my fault he’s a lecherous bastard and isn’t used to ‘no’ for an answer.”

“He’s the King, Sara!” he whispers back furiously.

Rip can _hear_ her rolling her eyes behind him, “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well you certainly noticed _his wife_!”

There’s a huff of laughter and he can picture the smirk, “Yeah old Henry was punching above his weight there . . .”

He shakes his head at the double entendre that Sara is quite obviously amused by as she snorts a little too loudly after her own words register.

His retort to hush her is cut off by the sound of footsteps nearing closer and he comes to a sudden halt, Sara colliding into his back.

Royal guards. On the hunt for them and quite literally _their heads._

He spins around, his hand brushing against her as his eyes dart wildly in the dark. It’s difficult to see anything, but the flicker of a nearing torch at the far end of the passageway is enough to let him know they need to move, and fast.

It seems Sara’s thoughts aren’t too far from his own as she grabs hold of his arm at about the same time, and urgently tugs. “Come on!”

The question of _where_ is there on his tongue. There’s nowhere to hide as far as he can see, but he finds himself being pulled with intent and so he lets it go and trusts that she sees something he doesn’t.

“Here,” she whispers, somehow manoeuvring around him until she’s no longer pulling but shoving him against the damp, stone walls. They jut horridly into his back, and he grimaces in discomfort. His “Sara, what are y-mmph” ends up being muffled against the press of her hand at his mouth, and his lips clamp shut.

The footsteps are nearing, and the torches they carry seep enough light through the cracks to realise Sara has somehow stumbled them into an alcove, hidden away in this maze of underground tunnels. She presses herself closer, hand still at his mouth, the other clutching at the skirts of her gown and it only takes him a second to realise she has a knife hidden away under all those layers.

Which, no, doesn’t surprise him in the least.

The surprise comes instead from the panic that builds, hurtling through his arteries and veins with a force he’s not used to. Because, honestly? He’s been in worse predicaments than this. And yet, his heart speeds up, a rapid thump-thump-thump against his ribcage that rushes in his ears, and he thinks surely it must be loud enough to give their position away. If he blames it on anything, he blames it on the nearing footsteps, on the terrifying thought of being caught, the thought of being thrown on top of the Tower of London chopping blocks, and the thought of them swinging the axe down on her first and him being forced to watch, because _ladies first_ , of course. Wouldn’t do for King Henry VIII to be seen as anything less than chivalrous.

It has nothing, he tells himself, _nothing_ to do with her pressed up against him so intimately; her chest brushing up against his with every silent breath she takes in and out, or the leg she has wedged between his, and even through the layers he can feel her thigh, strong and firm pressing against him. His one hand is caught trapped between their bodies, awkwardly pushing into her stomach, his other grips her waist and pulls her in even tighter because . . . _because_.

No.

No, it has nothing to do with that at all.

The guards march past them then, their flaming torches casting enough light as they go that it casts shadows across her face and he can quite clearly see the slight parting of her lips, and the eyes that are blown wide, staring up at him.

Fear. It has to be fear.

But he knows Sara Lance, and that isn’t fear that stares back at him.

The footsteps recede and with it the darkness returns and if he’d tried to ignore the press of her fingers against his lips before, he’s failing abysmally now. They slide off just a fraction, instead pressing against the stubble of his cheek, but her thumb stays right there on his lower lip. He thinks he must be imagining the gentle caress and the slow breath that leaves her lips, like a ghost blowing across his skin.

The guards are gone, and yet, she hasn’t moved.

And for whatever cursed reason, he finds himself unable to either; his fingers clenching instead around the fabric of her dress and the thump-thump-thumping of his heart shows no signs of slowing down.

His tongue nearly betrays him, her name there on his lips - a question, a prayer - luckily he doesn’t have to endure the embarrassment of finding out which, as there’s a sudden crackle of static in his ear.

“Guys? Guys? We’ve got comms back up, where are you guys?”

The sudden sound of Dr Palmer’s voice in their ears have them springing apart, except moving backwards for him means banging his head against the wall and the sharp hiss of pain and “ow!” that follow has Ray panicking in his ear.

“Guys? Rip? What’s happening? You okay? Guys?!”

He groans, a hand reaching up to rub at the back of his head, “We’re here Dr Palmer. We’re fine. A little lost in the underground passageways, but thankfully our heads are still attached to our bodies, albeit no thanks to _Captain Lance_.”

He doesn’t have to see her clearly to know she’s scowling, an indignant “hey!” falling from her lips as she swats at him. But there’s no weight behind it, and he somehow knows that scowl will soften easily into a smile with his obvious teasing.

She’s starting to get a handle on his sense of humour, not that it comes out to play all that often but it has been making a showing a little more in recent months. The whole team have their ways of coaxing it out of him now.

“O-kay?” Ray says slowly, unsure, clearly confused, though he pushes past it fine. “I’ll get Gideon to get a lock on your positions, and we’ll get you two out of there in no time. Hang tight guys.”

“Copy that,” Sara acknowledges, before the static crackles once more and then all that’s left is silence. Awkward, tension-filled silence.

It’s not entirely unfamiliar.

There have been moments; moments where he’d feel something crackling in the air between them. A disagreement that flares into full blown yelling across the floor of the bridge, until they’re both breathing heavily and staring the other down, with a gaze so heated, he’s surprised he doesn’t wilt. Or moments of hilarity, usually courtesy of one of the team, and he finds himself smiling, even chuckling, despite himself and he looks up to find her gaze already on him, a soft smile playing on her lips, twinkling from her eyes and his own breath catches in his chest with it.

They’ve had moments.

Just never quite like _this._

And he’s not sure if he should say something? Or ignore it? As he has been with everything else, because there’s no conceivable way that he feels anything beyond respect or admiration for his Captain. Anything _more_ would be ridiculous.

The silence stretches on, until of course, Sara, Brave Sara, breaks it.

“You okay there, Rip?”

He swallows, “Mmhm, yes, quite. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Right,” she says, and he wonders if she doesn’t sound just a mite irritated.

She lets out a long breath then, and he wishes he could see her better.

She clearly doesn’t believe him, but lets it slide and changes the topic. “What do you think they saw in him? His wives, I mean?”

He’s thankful for the distraction, as he grabs hold of the subject and answers her; “Ah yes, _that._ One of history’s greatest mysteries.”

She snorts.

“Maybe,” he continues on, “it was his mountains of gold, the title and status . . .”

She makes a dismissive noise, clearly disagreeing.

“Or maybe,” he says, “his dashing good looks, heroism, his charm and dry wit . . .”

She laughs, because it’s clear he’s making fun. The Henry VIII they’ve met is far from any of those. Still, it surprises him when she opens her mouth, and teases, “Are we still talking about the King of England, _or you?_ ”

His mouth snaps shut at the unexpected, and if he didn’t know any better, almost flirtatious undertones of her words. She’s only making light, she must be. He convinces himself of this before he opens his mouth again and tries to sound as nonchalant as he knows how to be; “Except I have no mountains of gold . . .”

“And the dashing good looks?” she asks, and he feels her brush against his shoulder and wonders how she’s managed to move towards him with him having no clue. That, and how she can even see in this darkness?

_Trained assassin_ , that’s how.

He feels her stop beside him, her shoulder pressing into his as she leans back against the wall, and just like that, they’re back on dangerous terrain.

He swallows. “No don’t have those either.”

“Oh I don’t know,” she retorts, voice low, and his stomach turns in a way he hasn’t felt for a very long time, “I think you could easily get yourself six wives.”

He huffs out a breath, “I’ve only ever needed one.”

It takes a moment.

A tiny, pin drop of a moment, and the weight of those words adds up to so much more.

And whatever was building is gone once again.

He feels her move away first, the apology in the air between them, on his lips, on hers.

But he doesn’t even know why he feels the need to. _He just does._

“I mean-I-”

“No,” she interrupts, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s fine, I’m-”

He never finishes his sentence. And neither does she.

The cavalry arrives just in time.

The bright, blue tinged lights of Ray in the miniaturised version of his A.T.O.M. suit shines in their faces as he hovers in front of them like a firefly, to literally light their way.

It’s ridiculous, is what it is.

But Rip’s not complaining.

“How did you guys even end up here?”

He clears his throat, tests the waters to see if they’re back on land, “Captain Lance,” he says evenly, “Did you want to answer that one?”

Sara sighs, likely rolling her eyes again as she grumbles, “For the last time, this is not my fault!”

And just like that, the tension dissipates.

They fall into step behind the Atom, slipping into their familiar back and forth – Rip arguing the point about _sticking to the plan_ and _trying,_ for the love of God, _not to seduce every royal_ _she comes across through time_ , while Sara remains steadfastly unrepentant for her actions – all the way back to the Waverider.

He doesn’t bring it up again.

She doesn’t either.

And he is absolutely fine with that.

_He is._

_Because_ , he reminds himself once more, there’s _nothing_ but respect and admiration between them.

Nothing more.

And anything else would be _ridiculous_.

Right?

_Yes,_ he decides.

Yes, it would be.

Well, _that_ , and _impossible._

 

TBC.


	2. II

 

] II [

**2186, Amazon Rainforest**

**Peru**

\-----

 

“Up!”

Rip swings around to look down at her, the rain dripping down his face, droplets teetering on the tip of his nose and catching on his eyelashes. She wonders if it’s clogging up his ears as well or if it’s just the sound of the rainstorm battering down on the trees and leaves around them that has him gaping at her in utter bewilderment.

“What?” he yells and yep, she thinks, _he can’t hear a thing_.

“Up!” she repeats herself, pointing this time in a skyward direction.

She can just about see the moment it registers – _just about_ – because this rainfall? It’s _ridiculous._ Like honestly, the Peruvian rainforest could do without a few hundred millimetres of rain for one day, right?

And besides, they don’t have time for this. The forest floor is crawling with all sorts of reptilian lifeforms, not forgetting the poisonous spiders and insects with more eyes and feet than they need. But it’s not those that spur on the sense of urgency, it’s the great big wild cat prowling around them with the laser sharp fangs, and the fact that Rip’s only gone and cut his forearm so it is literally smelling blood.

Seems twenty-second century felines have the same carnivorous appetite, no doubt fuelled by a likely hatred for mankind. Not that she blames them. They’ve managed to decimate half the world’s total forestland area by 2186. She thinks she’d feel the same if anyone dare tear through the Waverider’s hull and destroy _her_ home.

But now’s not the time for piling on the guilt.

From the widening, panic-filled eyes that stare down at her, she thinks he finally understands.

He shakes his head in horror, his lips curving around the word “no” as she nods her head “yes” and tugs on his arm.

“Sara! Sara!” he yells after her as she starts to climb. It is no easy feat by any means given so few of these trees have low lying branches, but hey all that work on the salmon ladder hadn’t been for nothing.

“Sara!” he yells again, and she hears him just fine as he curses, “I’m not bloody Tarzan!”

She anchors her foot, hands winding around a vine as she looks down at him. She reaches out her arm, her meaning very clear.

“Oh bollocks,” he mutters, and she can read his lips just fine as he makes his split-second decision and slaps his hand into hers and trusts.

Now’s not the time to marvel at that trust, but she knows, days from now, she’ll think back on it in wonder.

Because Rip Hunter isn’t really the most athletic type, and with the gash on his forearm still seeping blood, the pain and the strain etched into every grimace and exertion as he pulls himself up the tree, it really is quite a miracle that he manages to follow her.

It's adrenaline and survival instinct, sheer will power at work.

But somehow, they get there; one of the wider branches not quite at the top, but under the canopy and high enough to put a breathable distance between them and the predator prowling the forest floor.

He’s huffing and puffing away when he collapses onto the branch, clutching shamelessly to the wide trunk, eyes squeezed tight. The overhead branches and leaves provide some shelter from the downpour and she can see him a little more clearly now.

His shirt is sodden through, which isn’t a surprise, but it’s the fact that he’s alarmingly pale that has her worried. For a moment she thinks it’s just the exertion and the wetness that has him looking so pallid, but then she notices the stain on his arm and remembers.

“Damn it, Rip,” she mutters, shaking her head as she slides as close to him as possible. “You said it was just a scratch!”

“I, uh, may have _under_ stated the extent of my injury, Captain.”

She bristles at the formality. She knows he only brings out the _Captain Lance_ in the middle of missions to keep her focussed, especially when things take a turn for the worse (which happens more often than not in their case), and it aggravates her that he knows her well enough to know it works. But still, she’s growing used to her name falling from his lips and anything else just makes her feel as if he’s forcing distance between them.

Because this _thing_ between them is not a figment of her imagination.

She knows it.

And she damn well knows _he knows it._

“Let me see it,” she says.

He pulls his arm in tighter, and grimaces, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” she says, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, “That’s why you look like you’re about ten seconds away from passing out.”

“If I look like I’m going to pass out, it’s because I’ve just climbed a tree in the middle of the Amazon with a beast, teeth the size of my arms, chasing me!”

“Impressive,” she says flatly, which gets her a sharp look.

She relents, tries a softer approach, “Just let me look at it, please?”

He sighs, before releasing his death-grip on the trunk and shifting around a little further so that his back is half pressed against it instead.

She’s not sure how she’s supposed to navigate their position. The branch is definitely thick and strong enough to support their weight, but with the rain still battering down around, she knows they’re more likely to slip and lose their footing than the bough breaking.

It takes Sara less than three seconds to realise where the best place for her to get a decent view of his arm is. The only problem being, she thinks the very idea of it may render him catatonic with embarrassment.

So she decides to forego the warning and just do it.

He’s watching her warily, pain etched into the tension lines of his face as she pushes her hands down beside her, using the leverage to lift her legs up so that they rest across his thighs. She then shifts forwards and slides into his lap, one hand clutching at his shoulder, the other resting on the trunk just beside his head.

He looks far more awake now, eyes wide and more panicked than they had been before. She wonders if she should take offence that he thinks her scarier than a big jungle cat.

“Sara . . .” he stammers out, and she supposes it makes sense to drop all formality with her sitting on top of him.

“Show me,” she says, bringing her hands around to look at his arm. The motion has her shifting her centre of gravity and she pitches forward ever so slightly. Rip instinctively grabs hold of her waist with his uninjured arm and holds her steady. Despite the rain seeping into her t-shirt, his hand is surprisingly warm.

The gash is fairly deep, and there’s a whole lot of dark blood drying on his skin but there’s relief to see that although he’s still bleeding, it’s slowed down enough now that he isn’t in any danger of haemorrhaging out here, hanging off a tree.

Her thoughts must be playing out across her face and she can feel his gaze, unwavering, on her. “See,” he says, breathing out and trying his level best to steady his voice, “nothing to worry about.”

Except he seems to be forgetting the blood he’s already lost.

She looks up at him, but the words to admit she _always worries about him_ are washed away with the rain. His eyes are green. Ridiculously green. Made all the more vibrant by the surrounding foliage and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen them look so _alive_. Maybe it’s the pain that has them burning so bright, or the exhilaration of being chased through a rainforest and up a tree, but the way in which his gaze is fixed on her makes her think that maybe it’s something else altogether.

That _something_ that they really needed to talk about.

Brewing for months, and neither willing to take more than cautious sips at a time.

His eyes drop to her lips and her stomach swoops with it, and she thinks maybe, _finally_ , they’re on the same page.

But of course, with all the time in the world, quite literally in their grasp, their timing _sucks._

There’s a sudden gust of wind then which has him clutching her closer as she falls into his chest. Her fingers curl into his injured arm, the palm of her other hand slapping down hard on the tree trunk with the forward motion. Rip releases a sharp exhale of breath in her ear, clearly in pain where her fingers have thoughtlessly grabbed hold.

There’s a darkness creeping across the sky over them, and an abrupt cessation of rain that follows.

Her dumbfounded “What-?” is accompanied by a huff of breathless laughter as Rip clearly recognises what’s happening before her.

She tilts her head back to look up at him, looks past his chin and follows his upward gaze.

And then she sees it.

And shakes her own head with a laugh.

Because there, hovering above them, is the Waverider.

“Looks like we’re finally getting rescued.”

“Pity,” she says, trying not to overthink her next words, “I think I kind of like it up here. Amazing view, comfy seat. Could have stayed out here all night, gazing at the stars . . .”

 _With you_.

Except she doesn’t voice that part aloud.

It’ll only make him run that much faster.

But then maybe she’s not the only one deliberating over their words and choosing them carefully where the other is concerned. Because for the tiniest of moments, she can see it flicker across his face – the way he seems to weigh his words too.

And the balance? Well, it tips in her favour, as he shakes his head with the beginnings of a smile turning his lips, and he finally looks down and holds her gaze.

“Had I not been injured, I think I would have quite liked that too.”

“Really?” she asks, letting go of the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. She does nothing to hide the surprise, and the burgeoning hope is difficult to stamp down.

“Really,” he nods. “Maybe next time.”

She can work with maybe.

It’s a hell of a lot better than never.

And so she grins back in return, adds a wink just to see him blush, and agrees;

“Maybe. _If you’re lucky_.”

 

 


	3. III

 

] III [

**2017, Unknown Location**

**Central City, U.S.A.**

\-----

“How do we always find ourselves in these situations?”

“I’ve been asking myself that same, _exact_ question.”

He hears her sigh, her shoulders brushing against the back of his as she literally shrugs it off. “Guess trouble just likes to find us.”

“Find _you_ , Captain Lance.”

“Hey, I’m not here by myself.”

He doesn’t need reminding. She wasn’t supposed to even be here.

The plan had been for _him_ to get caught. Not the both of them.

And yet somehow, here they are, tied to chairs, back to back, and nothing but grey, stained walls around them, boxing them into this room that smells of urine and rot.

It’s a long story. Something about Professor Stein’s fondness for The Flash and extending their services to help catch a ring of particularly nasty bad guys involved in drugs and trafficking and all sorts of other nefarious things. Things Rip would rather not think about. There’s a reason he hates the gang taking vacations back in their present day. It’s not just that he misses them when they’re gone, which he’ll never admit to even on pain of death, but because it gives them _ideas_. Ideas that their Captain is in no way immune to.

“Yes, well, I was _supposed_ to come alone,” he bats back.

“Yeah, and it’s a good thing I came when I did! You were two seconds away from getting your head blown off if I hadn’t stepped in!”

“I was handling myself perfectly fine!”

She lets out a noise that sounds very much like a disbelieving snort, as if what he’s just said is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.

He shakes his head, brushing against the back of hers. Her hair is untied; he can tell because strands of it tickle against his neck, getting inside the collar of his shirt. But his hands are tied to the armrests and he can only take a deep breath in and out through his nose and divert his attention elsewhere.

Except, there’s nothing else in this poorly lit, dungeon of a room to focus it on.

Nothing, and no one apart from Sara.

She must sense his agitation, as she backs down and tries to reassure him, “Relax. The team have got this. It’s a fool proof plan. We’ll be out of here before you know it.”

Now it’s his turn to let the incredulous rush of air leave his nose, as if he can’t quite believe she’d say the exact words fate loves to hear. Words that egg it on to do the _exact opposite_.

“You just had to, didn’t you?” he grumbles under his breath.

“Just trust me,” she says.

Trusting her isn’t the issue.

The words ‘trust me’ always have a little bit of an inevitability to them, an almost, kind of, _famous last words_ tinge to them.

And just sometimes, _sometimes_ , he hates being right.

He’s not sure how much time has passed. There’s been neither hide nor hair of their captors for hours. The team have yet to make their dramatic entrance for a rescue and he’s sure night must be creeping into dawn now. The small slit of a window in the upper corner of the room showcases the changing hues of the sky as time passes.

And time passes achingly slowly.

Sara lasts longer than he thought she would before conceding, “Okay so maybe it’s gonna take a little longer than I first thought.”

The ridiculousness of their situation breeds an unexpected urge to laugh, but he bites down on his tongue to stop himself. He’s not sure she’ll take too kindly to that.

So instead, he shrugs, tries his best to reassure; “Oh no, what’s three hours in the grand scheme of things? Have faith Captain, they’ll be here soon.”

He feels her drop her head back against his gently, can almost feel her deflate with a resigned sigh as she sinks lower in her seat.

“Sara?” he calls out softly, “we’re going to be fine.”

Rip’s not sure if she even hears him; she’s silent for too long.

“Sara?”

“I know,” she breathes out finally.

He nods, “Good.”

He feels her straighten up then, bolstering her shoulders back against his and he can almost sense the resolve tensing through her muscles.

“Talk to me,” she says suddenly.

He startles at the demand, thoughts running wild about what she could possibly want to hear.

“About?” he prompts.

“Anything. This hanging around, waiting to be rescued, is making me antsy.”

This time he does chuckle. Because Sara Lance is no damsel in distress, she can kick and stab her way out of anything, doesn’t need to depend on anyone to save her skin. It’s one of the things he loves about her. _Admires._ Admires about her.

“Anything’s a rather broad topic.”

“Okay, so tell me some stories of your heroic adventures as a Time Master then. You can’t have been _infamous_ for nothing.”

He shakes his head, “Most of those are stories I’d rather forget.”

“I’m sorry,” she says after a beat, and he’s the one left feeling remorse. She hadn’t meant anything by it, but he and the past have a terrible relationship. One that keeps him awake most nights, nothing but self-hatred, fiery anger and the deepest pits of despair wait for him in the land beyond the sleeping veil.

But he’ll admit, he doesn’t suffer so much now.

There’s a lot more light creeping into the dark corners of the Waverider, filtering through into his subconscious and he’s been getting better. Day by day. Slowly. And he thinks it’s the people around him, the family he’s made for himself, that are to blame for it entirely.

“It’s okay, Sara.”

She doesn’t say anything and he wishes he could reach out and hold her hand. Instead his fingers curl against the armrest, nails digging into the wood as he breathes in and out.

“You know, they made us run this exact scenario once before?”

“What do you mean?”

“Back at the Academy. Part of our training was to run through various simulated scenarios, work alone or together to try and figure out how to get out of them with as minimal damage and casualties as possible. Situations from time pirates taking over your ship, to being held captive by your enemy and being dosed with hallucinogenics in an attempt to break you down for details of your mission-”

“Sounds like a party.”

“Ha, not quite.”

“So? What happened?”

“Hmm? With what?”

“You said you had to run this exact scenario once? How did you get out of it?”

“I didn’t,” he answers her, “Miranda did.”

He can sense she doesn’t know what to say, how to broach the subject any further because he doesn’t talk about _them_. He just doesn’t know _how._ And maybe it’s because he can’t see her but can still feel her strength soaking through, the soft encouragement of her words as she echoes his own words, “it’s okay, Rip,” that he opens his mouth and speaks.

“Miranda was a smart woman, far too smart for the likes of me. A far better Time Master than I ever was to be honest.”

A smile flickers on his lips as he remembers, “She’d got herself out of those cuffs within the first ten seconds of being caught, fooled them into thinking they had her well and truly cornered, and then when they least expected it . . .” He trails off, leaves the rest to her imagination and his fond memories.

Sara shakes her head, and says with a small laugh, “She sounds like my kind of woman.”

He huffs out a breath, the smile looking more like a grin now, “Oh mine too.” He swallows then, the words on his tongue, ones he’s kept so close to his chest, holding on so tight and he feels his grasp loosening and it’s rather freeing in a way he hadn’t dreamt it could be. “Miranda was smart, brave, fearless and reckless in equal, exasperating measure, but she was also so kind and loyal. Selfless in a way, I can only ever aspire to be. She was . . .” and his voice falters then, swept up in memories of just a fraction of what he’s lost. “She was beautiful,” he finishes quietly.

“I’m sorry you lost her,” Sara says softly, and it’s almost as if he can feel her breath on his skin as she whispers the words meant to soothe into his ear. He’d wanted to hold her hand, mere moments ago, and it’s as if she reads his mind, and he can feel her hand over his now.

He’s not sure what to say to that, but finds himself turning his head anyway in her direction, hoping she’ll understand what he can’t say in words.

_But then._

But then, it takes a second to register.

The press of her chin on his shoulder, the feel of her skin pressing into the back of his hand, her fingers filling the spaces between his as she holds on to him, the understanding in her eyes as she holds his gaze. Because Sara Lance knows loss too.

Grief has made its acquaintance with them all; an acquaintance they’d sooner forget meeting than ever invite back, but it never has been able to take a hint.

He shakes his head once and blinks.

No. No, she’s definitely still there.

“How . . ?”

There’s the slightest tilt of her lips as she shrugs, the answer there in her expression.

He shakes his head in amazement, a puff of his breath gently ruffling the hair that falls across her face, “You’ve been out of those ties the entire time, haven’t you?”

She doesn’t really need to say anything, the smile says it all.

“Then why?”

“Part of the plan.”

“And were you ever going to fill me in to what the _actual_ plan was?”

She grins wider, and with their faces so close, his eyes have no choice but to follow the curve of her mouth. “Let me guess,” he says, “Me being in the dark? Also a part of the plan.”

“See?” she says, reaching out to pat his cheek, “Who says you weren’t smart enough for her?”

He shakes his head again, the smile on his lips faltering as her hand stays there on his cheek, thumb brushing along his jaw as she stares back at him.

For one very long second, he thinks his heart stops beating, and it all just falls into place.

Because, really?

He should have seen _her_ coming.

He’s danced this dance once before, after all.

And now he’s literally spelt it out for himself, singing her virtues out loud, and it’s surprising she hasn’t pieced it together.

But maybe that’s not such a terrible thing

Because he’s not quite ready to face it yet, and so instead, he simply says, “You know, I think she would have liked you too.”

Her grin softens into a smile at that, and her thumb strokes his cheek once, twice more, before she pulls away and stands up.

She moves around him and easily undoes his ties. After the last binding is taken care of, she stands in front of him, hand outstretched.

“I think the team have had more than enough time to get the job done. Ready to get out of here?”

He takes her hand.

“Absolutely. Lead the way, Captain.”

 

 


	4. IV

 

] IV [

**2084, Bank of China Tower**

**Hong Kong**

\----

 

“Ray? Talk to me Ray, what’s going on with that counter?”

“Uh, still counting down, but I’m nearly there. Another ninety-six seconds, but I think I can get there before it hits ten? Five? _Three_ seconds?”

She takes a calming breath, tries to ignore the heat of Rip’s worried gaze on her.

“Firestorm? What’s your status?”

“I think we can get to two of the secondary charges in time, but the third one? I don’t think we’re gonna make it Sara.”

“Where is it?” It’s Rip who asks, finger pressed to his left earpiece.

And there’s a determined, reckless glint in his eyes that she’s seen numerous times before, and she does not like it. At all.

“Underground parking lot, south side of the building.”

Her eyes widen when she realises where they are, directly above it, a few floors up. Doesn’t take long for it to register with Rip either, because he’s heading for the doors leading to the stairwell before she can even reach out to him.

“Rip! RIP!” she calls out after him, but he doesn’t take heed, and then she’s running.

He’s flying down those stairs, the soles of his boots not even touching the ground as he holds onto the rails and jumps down the last few steps at each turn, coat billowing out behind him.

He pushes open the door leading into the parking lot, and he’s spinning on the spot as he turns, eyes scanning for the explosive.

“Over there!” she says, spotting the flickering red light on one of the central columns.

He gets to it first, eyes laser focussed on the mess of wiring attached to the incendiary device.

“Can you disarm it?” she asks him.

He doesn’t answer her, instead says with his voice remarkably steady, “Get out of here Sara.”

“What? No!”

“Sara . . .”

“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the Captain here!”

He breathes out heavily, “I have not forgotten _Captain Lance_ , but there’s a, uh,” he stops, and it looks like he’s doing the mental calculations, but she thinks he’s probably just taking a stab in the dark, “fifty percent chance of this working. Maybe. Possibly. Unless of course Dr Palmer fails to disarm the main bomb in time, then there’s . . . no chance . . . so it doesn’t make sense for the both of us to risk it, now does it?”

Sara shakes her head, ignoring his words and choosing not to answer as she turns on the spot away from him before she does something stupid. Like punch him or _worse,_ kiss him, for his stupid display of heroism and idiotic selflessness. So, instead, she takes a deep breath in and out, and presses at her earpiece again, hoping against all hope for some good news; “Ray? Tell me you’ve got this?”

“Nearly there, just give me . . . two . . . more . . . seconds and YES! I HAVE STOPPED THE BOMB PEOPLE!”

She literally sags with the relief, her chin dropping to her chest as she breathes, “Oh thank God. _You_? And I don’t say it enough, are a _genius_ , Ray!”

“ _Well_ ,” Ray says then all coy, and she can imagine his _aw shucks, me?_ face, and just like that she remembers why she’s so reticent with her praise in the first place.

She clears her throat, and straightens up, gets back to the point, “Okay, we can do the pat on the backs later. But right now, I need you to focus Ray, and talk Rip through disarming one of the secondary devices. Can you do that?”

“What?” and his momentary elation disappears, only to be replaced again with panic, “Why are you guys still here? I thought Firestorm were flying those out of here?”

“There’s not enough time to get to them all, and there’s not enough time for _this_ either Ray!” she snaps with mounting frustration and fear. Her eyes turn back towards Rip to find him already watching her, his own anxiety rippling through every muscle he has tensed.

“Okay, okay,” Ray breathes out, “Rip?”

“Yes, Dr Palmer, I’m here.”

“Okay, alright, tell me what you see . . .”

She can barely stand to watch and so she diverts her attention to the other matter at hand whilst they work.

“Nate? Amaya? How are we doing with evacuating the building?”

“All clear, but you guys really need to get out of there!”

“We’ve just got one-”

“No, Sara, listen to me-” Nate cuts in, his words rushing out of him in one breath, “there are _four_ , not three secondary charges. You can’t get to the last one in time! You guys have to leave! RIGHT NOW!”

Rip turns his head to look at her. And despite her best attempts, she thinks the expression on her face gives it away.

“What?” he asks, “What is it?”

She swallows, decides to tell him the truth, “there’s a fourth charge.”

Because of course there is. That’s just their luck.

And she knows he doesn’t need to be told their chances are futile.

She can see it.

She can see it flicker across his face, and it isn’t _fear_. It’s _acceptance_. And _that?_ That has her more terrified than she’s ever been before. There’s a little bit of anger there too, but she thinks that anger is born from too many things to count, and it’s too much to process now. Not with him looking back at her like _that_.

“Go,” he says.

She doesn’t budge.

“I’ve got this Sara. Get out of here!” he tells her again, louder, more forceful, this time.

And she feels entirely frozen in place, struck by an alarming sense of déjà vu.

Except this time it’s a different set of eyes that stare back at her.

There’s always been a sense of ‘what could have been’ with the loss of Leonard. She’d cared about him, a lot. And maybe that could have turned into more over time, but they weren’t really given the chance to find out. She’d grieved him, she’d grieved the loss of a possibility, but she’d moved on. She’d cared about him. Of course, she had. But she hadn’t been in love with him.

This?

This feels different.

Different in a way that has her rooted to the spot, refusing to leave, refusing to kiss him goodbye.

And whatever it is, she thinks it must be written all over her face, because his hands still as his eyes hold hers and her name leaves his lips, heavy with sorrow and an apology that she doesn’t want to dwell on because she thinks it’ll only break her heart. And if she’s going to die, she’d rather its left whole in her chest when she does. Because, _of course_ , he doesn’t feel the same. Because, he’s said it himself, out loud and in not so many words, there’s only ever been one. And time never bent its will to save her, no matter how many times he railed against it.

But she’ll never blame him. And she’ll never hate _her_.

Envy may tear at her, but she won’t let that turn to hatred.

Because he deserves better than that.

The man who’s saved her too many times to count and still doesn’t believe he’s worth the same.

And so she holds his gaze, doesn’t let the fear make her waver as she steps up beside him and turns to look at the chaos of wires in front of her. “What can I do?” she asks evenly.

She feels him watching her, before he turns away and points to one of the wires, “Hold that steady, and pass me one of your knives.”

She smirks. “How do you know I have more than one?” she says, reaching into her boot, and passing it over, handle side up.

“Because,” he says, pressing the blade against the blue wire, before pausing to look back at her, “you’re Sara Lance.”

And there’s something about _her_ name being the last to leave his lips that, despite her best efforts, breaks her heart anyway.

He doesn’t blink as he cuts through the wire with a single slice, and she can’t look away from him either.

At least this time, she thinks, _this time_ , she’s not alone.

But then . . .

_Nothing._

Nothing happens.

He’s still standing.

She’s still here, breathing.

And she can’t help the bubble of laughter that leaves her. She grasps hold of his arm and squeezes just to make sure, and looks back up to find him shaking his head in disbelief. Disbelief that he managed to disable a bomb. Disbelief that he dodged death once again.

Of course, that thought only lasts a few seconds. A sudden tremor shakes all around them and under their feet and she remembers they aren’t quite home free yet.

There are cracks running through the concrete, zig-zagging above and below, dust falling all around and in the distance a cacophony of people yelling and shouting on the surrounding main roads, together with the sirens of the Chinese authorities and emergency services rushing to the scene. It all adds to the blare of car alarms and the rumble of concrete, the shatter of glass, and the whine of steel metal beams bending in the foreground.

And yet, all she really hears is the beat of her own heart pounding in her ears, and _him._

“We should-” he starts to say.

“Run?” she finishes.

This time it’s him holding out his hand, and she doesn’t need asking twice as she slips her hand into his, squeezing tight, before he pulls.

“Run!”

 

 


	5. V

 

] V [

**1995, Metropolitan Museum of Art**

**New York City, U.S.A.**

\-----

Rip’s not averse to fashion.

Fundamentally, he understands it’s importance. Isn’t ignorant enough to dismiss its role in human history and in helping shape societies, cultures the world over. He can even appreciate it as _art_ , to an extent.

But some things? Some things, he thinks, just aren’t meant to be worn by a human being.

“You’re gawking,” Sara whispers beside him, as he watches a woman dressed in what he thinks is barbed wire walk past them, casually sipping on her sparkling champagne.

“I mean, _how_ is _that_ haute couture? It looks rather more like a torture device.”

Sara slips her arm through his and leans into his shoulder, “Says the man who knows nothing about fashion.”

“I know plenty about fashion.”

“So, what’s with the one, constant outfit?” she asks, voice level, eyes scanning the room for their suspect time pirate.

“That’s not about fashion, that’s about comfort and functionality.”

There’s the tiny jangle of her earrings as she shakes her head slightly, an unconvinced “mmhmm,” leaving her lips. She’s a mass of tension beside him, vibrating like strings of a bow being pulled taut. And it’s not their mission that’s to blame.

No, _it’s him_.

And how is he so certain?

Well it’s the sharp, impersonal edge her words have taken on for the past several weeks that has him convinced. They lack all her usual warmth. He’d noticed it some time after their near miss in Hong Kong, and it can’t be a coincidence. Nor is it a coincidence that it’s only ever in his direction. He’s been wracking his brain, trying to figure out what it is that he’s done, and the only thing he can think of is him ignoring her orders and staying behind to disarm that bomb.

But he knows it was the right thing to do. He’s sure she knows it too.

And besides, Sara Lance is a bit of an expert when it comes to disobeying orders, so she doesn’t really have a leg to stand on when it comes to being mad.

This is the closest she’s been to him since. Physically, speaking.

She’s made a point of avoiding him. If she thinks he hasn’t noticed, well she’s done a poor job of being subtle about it – silly excuses to leave the room, pairing him up with anyone but her on the team . . .

Except now, of course.

With a few interventions of fate and circumstance, they happen to be the only two members of the team that can carry out this particular mission, and convincingly impersonate the outlandishly rich, yet philanthropic, loving couple, whose invitations they’ve stolen.

The _loving_ part of the equation is obviously missing.

As well as all the other qualifiers. Oh, and the _couple_ part of it too, of course.

Standing static on the edge of the dancefloor, and looking for all the world like being in each other’s presence is torture is admittedly not the best way to avoid drawing attention to themselves.

Rip realises they must be doing a terrible job of blending in if Mr Rory sees fit to comment on it.

It takes some effort not to startle at the man’s gruff voice in his ear as he brushes past him. Dressed as the wait staff, he holds out a silver tray of champagne flutes.

“Hey lovebirds,” he says, voice low, “you might wanna think about taking a spin around the dancefloor. I’ve caught more than two pairs of shifty eyes on you. Even I’m doing a better job of blending in and that’s saying something.”

His whispered retort is cut off before he even opens his mouth, as Sara reaches across him to place her empty glass on Mick’s tray and then pulls on his arm with a painted smile.

“He’s right, _darling_. Shall we?”

Each word is a like a dagger. Sharp stabs digging in. He tries not to grimace.

In a role reversal of the last time they did this, it’s Sara offering her hand.

He takes it and they walk onto the dancefloor and settle into position as if they’ve done this countless times before. The last time they danced seems like an age ago. So much has changed since. They’ve lost people and welcomed new. Every single one of them have faced their own demons and come out of their respective burning cauldrons a little charred, but still mostly in one piece and their capacities to learn, forgive and forget, get better, _be better_ , for the most part, not dulled away by ash.

If anything, he thinks Sara has come away shining brighter than ever, made stronger by her losses and if there’s one thing that’s not changed since the last time he held her like this – one hand holding hers, the other curved around her waist – it’s his admiration for her.

But that admiration has always been susceptible to change, and it doesn’t surprise him just how it has.

He loves her.

In a way that terrifies him, because that particular torture of an emotion has only ever been entangled in loss and pain; he finds himself floundering in it from time to time, trying to stay afloat, and not drown. It’s funny how it’s her that helps him up at those times, but can then just as easily push him under and leave him to the currents, pulling him in any which direction.

Just like now.

She’s not looking at him, her eyes fixed over his shoulder. He can tell she’s scouring their surroundings, looking for exits, cataloguing everyone in their vicinity, looking past the sparkling ballgowns and tuxedoes, both the ridiculous and not-so ridiculous fashion choices, and making note of anyone that fits the bill of their suspect.

She’s focussed on the mission, as she should be, as _he_ should be, and yet he can’t help but think she’s using it as an excuse to push him away.

Which is funny given their proximity, but he’s never felt further from her.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, the breath leaving his lips unsettling the few curls of her hair that have escaped from her elegantly styled chignon.

She startles a little at the apology, but doesn’t turn to face him.

“For what?”

“For whatever it is that I’ve done to anger you.”

Her fingers clench at his shoulder, digging into the fabric of his jacket but her steps don’t falter as he leads them around the floor, weaving between the other couples.

“You didn’t do anything.”

And from her mouth, those words almost sound like an accusation.

_Almost._

He doesn’t get to respond because he notices the subtle change in her expression, the narrowing of her eyes as she switches on to full alert.

“I think I’ve just spotted our mystery man,” she says.

“Where?”

“Your five o’clock.”

“Are you certain?”

“I’d say so. Shifty eyes, not so subtly talking into his wrist watch and backing out of here? Yeah, that’s him.”

“Okay then,” he breathes out. “How we planned it?”

She nods her head just a touch, and then he’s spinning her out in front of him before curling her back into his chest and stepping to the side. He spots Martin in the corner of the room and catches his gaze. There’s the slightest tilt of the other man’s head in recognition of their cue while they carry on dancing for a few moments longer. With each step, and twirl of Sara’s dress, they slip closer and closer to one of the side doors flanked by security, restricting the guests access to the rest of the museum and exhibits after hours.

But then, they never had been guests, had they?

No, those guests had been a Mr and Mrs Epworth, who had unfortunately run into a little trouble getting here on time. Car trouble. Courtesy of one Mr Jackson and Dr Heywood.

There’s an almighty crash of glass shattering just then, which is quickly followed by the indignant screaming of guests in their ruined designer gowns, topped with the unmistakeable torrent of abuse from Mr Rory and the profuse apologetic mumblings of a clumsy Professor Stein.

The ruckus is enough to draw the attention of security, leaving the coast clear for the two of them.

_So far, so good._

They slip out of there and into the adjoining room. It’s rather darkly lit, with the only light coming from the glass display cases lining the walls and the centre of the room.

He doesn’t realise he’s still holding her hand until she’s tugging it free from his grasp.

He shoots her a glance, but she’s back to ignoring him, fingers pressed at her earpiece, “Amaya? Tell me you have eyes on him?”

Miss Jiwe’s voice crackles to life in his own ears as she answers, “He’s already on the second floor, heading straight for the artefact.”

_Not so good._

“Damn it,” Sara mutters, before looking up at him. “How the hell did he get up there so fast?”

“I suspect our time pirate’s managed to get his hands on some twenty-third century transportation tech.”

“You mean like _beam me up Scotty_?”

The reference isn’t lost on him, but the fact that it’s leaving her lips has him momentarily startled. “Something like that,” he says under his breath.

“We need to move,” she says, her focus as steadfast as ever as she runs for the doors at the far end. Her heels are loud on the polished flooring, and the lack of stealth is unlike her and just a little disconcerting.

“Sara,” he calls out, voice a harsh whisper that isn’t really a whisper at all. She doesn’t turn around. Instead stops at the doorway, leaning up against it as her eyes scan the empty hall leading to the stairs and lifts.

“Sara!” he calls again as he catches up to her and takes up his position on the opposite side, “We’re not going to get to him in time!”

“And whose fault is that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“This was your stupid plan!” And now she’s finally turning around and facing him, eyes blazing and he’d take a step back if he could.

“My-” he flounders, “My _stupid_ plan? I seem to recall it was a team effort, and I don’t remember you raising any objections _Captain_!”

The furious words being batted back and forth increase in volume with each successive word, not that he realises. And neither does she.

“Sara? Rip?” It’s Miss Jiwe’s voice in their ears again, but there’s too much steam coming out of both of theirs to hear or heed her warnings. “Guys, he’s getting away and you’re drawing attention to yourselves!”

“I did!” Sara seethes, as she steps closer to him, a fingernail jabbing into his chest, “I did, you just weren’t listening! You never listen!”

“I never-” he blusters, “I _never_ listen? That is _rich_ coming from you, Sara!”

“Mr Hunter? Captain Lance?” Now it’s Martin’s voice in their ear, and the slightly panicked undertones of the older man’s words somehow manage to filter through the haze as he stares down at Sara, standing too close, chest heaving and literally vibrating with anger. “I couldn’t stall security any longer, one of the guards is heading your way right this minute!”

“Thank you, Martin,” he breathes out slowly, his gaze fixed on Sara’s, who looks to be just as adamant not to be the first to break, the first to look away.

He thinks this has nothing to do with the mission, and everything to do with whatever has had her so angry with him all this time, with what she’s chosen to bury and ignore for so long, bubbling away underneath at high pressure and now it’s erupted like a vicious volcano spewing molten lava with no warning, as volcanoes are wont to do.

Seems apt she’s dressed in red then.

“Now’s not the time for this.”

“It’s never going to be the time,” she says, and it sounds bitter and broken and part of him thinks he has this all wrong. Because she’s not angry at him, but _herself_. The tone of her words reek of self-flagellation and he’s left feeling nothing but confusion.

“Sara . . .”

Her eyes flicker over to his left, and he spots the movement of the incoming security guard too. They have most definitely been made.

“Oh bloody hell,” he mutters under his breath, looks to her to gauge their next step but she’s already taking a step back from him into the bright lights of the open hall, and he can see the flush on her cheeks, and more alarmingly the redness of her eyes that are rapidly filling with water and spilling over her lashes and down her cheeks.

“Sara . . .” her name is a whisper on his tongue, but then the rest of his words, whatever they may have been are cut off with a wailing screech that does not sound anything like the Sara Lance he knows.

But Mrs Epworth?

_Maybe._

“It’s always the same _George_! It’s never the right time!”

There’s a flicker of her eyebrow as she looks back at him, and he understands her just fine. And so he follows her lead and plays along.

“Sweetheart, _please,_ ” he says stepping out after her.

She shakes her head, more tendrils of her hair coming loose.

“Work’s always going to take priority over me! Over us!”

He stops advancing, the security guard practically on them as he calls out, “Excuse me, Sir? Ma’am?”

But Sara’s on a roll, and who knew she’d be such an actress?

She laughs bitterly, “No, it’s fine. It’s okay. Because I always do this. I always-”

“Ma’am, Sir, I’m sorry, but this is a restricted area-” The poor guard sounds distinctly uncomfortable, more and more unsure with every word that leaves his mouth.

Sara, or rather Mrs Epworth, takes in a huge shuddering breath, ignoring the man as she steps back in his direction. Stops just there in front of him, and he thinks he doesn’t really need to act, the stunned, shellshock of an expression is all him, as she reaches forward, cups his cheek with one hand before sliding it down the lapels of his jacket as if she’s flattening them down, and looks up at him, blue eyes sparkling bright with tears.

And in his head, he knows she’s putting on a show. That this is all a lie. A distraction. A ruse.

But something rings true in the words she says next. And they hammer against his heart painfully.

“It’s okay. Because I’ve always known. I knew it when I married you. I love you more than you love me. And that’s okay. I’m okay with that.”

And then under her breath, he doubts he even heard her-

“I have to be.”

He’s not even paying attention to the guard, who’s looking between the two of them, awkwardly now stepping away with a quickly mumbled, “I’m sorry. I’ll just, um, leave you for a few minutes, shall I?”

He just stands there staring back at her, holding his breath, his lips curling around her name, even though he knows, _he knows_ , it’s not her speaking the words. Because she just _can’t be_ saying what he thinks she is.

But then she blinks, takes a step back with a deep, steadying breath in and she takes the air from his own lungs with it. She wipes at her face, cheeks still flushed bright red as she looks over her shoulder to find the hall empty once again.

She doesn’t look back at him as she presses at her earpiece, and the switch right back to business is jarring to say the least, “Amaya? Where is he now?”

“He’s already left the building-”

“Damn it!”

“But, Ray’s managed to tag him across Central Park, looks like he’s heading downtown.”

“Didn’t waste any time getting a buyer lined up, did he?” she mutters.

“No, he didn’t. Mick and Professor Stein have already left the building, Ray’s sending us the location, if we hurry we can still make it.”

Sara nods, “Okay. Good. We’ll meet you out back. Fronts crawling with paps.”

“Copy that.”

She’s already striding down the hall, and he hasn’t moved an inch.

“Sara . . .” he calls out, though he doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to say.

She stops in her tracks, looks over her shoulder, not quite meeting his gaze as she repeats his own words back at him;

“Now’s not the time for this, Rip.”

“Right,” he nods, shaking his head, “Of course not. Let’s go.”

Because it isn’t the time. She’s right.

But something tells him, _it’ll never be._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to the people still reading this, you've kept me going. I hope you've enjoyed it so far. One last part to go!


	6. +

 

] + [

**2021, Victoria Park**

**London, England**

\-----

 

Laugh.

It’s the only thing she can do.

_Laugh._

Because this is happening to her again.

Watching as the Waverider disappears into the night sky, the shimmer of the cloaking shield before it’s gone from sight, like it had hardly been there at all.

She shakes her head; the bitter laugh spilling from her lips tainting the air white.

It’s freezing cold.

But it’s London, in December. As if it could be anything else?

She doesn’t turn around but can hear his footfall as he runs up behind her, panting, and out of breath, as he asks, “Where are they? Where’s the Waverider?”

Of course, it just had to be _him_.

Stranded in time again, and it’s with him.

“They’ve gone,” she simply answers.

“Gone?” He steps up beside her, looking up at that same night sky. “What do you mean _gone_?”

She throws her hand up in the air, waves it around, “As in left us here. Gone.”

The shock on his face falls away, replaced by an expression that’s meant to reassure them both, though she thinks it’s more for him than anyone else. “Right, well, I’m sure there’s just been a slight glitch in the navigation systems, and Gideon will turn right around and come back for us.”

He nods his last words, so certain of his assertion, that she can’t help herself. She snorts loudly, inviting him to swivel his head in her direction and ask;

“What?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes continue to stare at her profile, and it’s a familiar feeling. One she’s tried to avoid at all costs in recent weeks but she guesses it’s her own fault really. She knows he has questions. The fact that he thinks he can burn a hole into her head with his gaze to get those answers out of her would be laughable if it were anyone else _but_ Rip. Because he knows her. Knows her so well, she sometimes wonders if he’s figured it out.

Her attempts to distance herself haven’t been subtle. Hell, she practically gave it all away during that whole debacle of a mission in New York, and she couldn’t even keep her cool long enough to _pretend._ And then she’d gone and told him she loved him in not so many words and the expression on his face when it had registered, just what she’d admitted, is etched permanently onto her retinas and she’s not sure how much longer she can go on like this. Denying it.

“It’s nothing,” she says again, before clearing her throat, and she really should just leave it there and yet she opens her mouth again. “Except we did that the last time, waited around, thinking you’d come back, but you never did.”

He’s silent for a moment too long, the words weighing heavy in the frigid air, before he speaks up;

“But I did. I _did_ come back. Granted I was a _little_ late . . .”

Her lips turn up ever so slightly, and it could have stayed frozen in place had it not been for him then softly saying in a confession that chips away at the hinges to her ribcage;

“I’ll always come back for you Sara.”

He’s still looking at her as she lifts her head, gaze colliding with his and he doesn’t flinch away. And even under this yellow-tinged street lighting of an East London road she doesn’t know the name of, she can tell no blush stains his cheeks. There’s no embarrassment in his admission, and she wonders what it means. If it means anything at all.

Sara looks away first, back up at the night sky. It’s a remarkably clear night. If she looks hard enough the stars blink themselves into existence, one by one.

“Come on,” he says then, “there’s no point waiting around here. They’ll find us wherever we are.”

He’s standing there in front of her, hands deep into the pockets of his black wool coat, chin dipping into the warmth of the grey scarf wound around his neck, and the tip of his nose turning pink as he waits.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

And there’s a flicker of a smile on his lips, and she realises he’d been holding his breath.

“I want to show you something.” And then: “Just trust me Sara, please?

And it feels like he’s asking her to trust him with a whole lot more.

 _Just trust me,_ she’d once asked of him, tied to chairs in a grey, dank room, waiting on a plan to fall into place. _Trust me_ , she’d asked of him with a silent, outstretched hand in the pouring rain of the Peruvian forests.

And he had. Every single time.

It’s the least she can do. 

And so she does – waves out her hand, and motions him to lead the way.

“Right,” he nods, clapping his hands together once before rubbing them back and forth in an effort to warm his skin.

He looks around him, and Sara finds the corner of her mouth twitching upwards despite herself. “Do you even know _where_ we’re going?”

He clearly resists the urge to roll his eyes as he stops mid-spin to look back at her and huff, “Of course I do. It’s just, this place, old London town, it doesn’t really look like this anymore. But . . . _but_ if I remember correctly . . .”

Rip doesn’t bother finishing his sentence, he’s already striding across the empty road.

It’s nearly three a.m. and apart from a few stragglers, the odd beam of headlights from a car, the night remains mostly undisturbed. She lightly jogs to catch up with him, falls into step beside him, and tugs down on her beanie to cover the tips of her ears from the cold.

She’s careful to keep her distance, and he makes no effort to close it either.

He turns a corner of the street, an old pub sitting there, the street lamp shining its light on the fading sign that hangs on the side, swaying gently in the wind. But he doesn’t stop there, carries on walking until the old brick walls along the side turn into bushes and hedgerows fenced behind weathered metal posts, painted a bottle green.

He comes to a stop in front of a set of gates, and looks back at her.

“The park? You wanted to show me the park?”

He doesn’t answer, his eyes shifting instead from side to side, looking up and down the length of the lifeless street.

She folds her arms across her chest. “It’s closed.”

“Ah. True. But when has that ever stopped us?” he retorts, and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes that’s never really been there before.

She bites down on a smile, blowing out a breath. “And how are you getting in?”

This time he smirks, reaches up to grab hold of one of the metal posts and jumps up, boots pressing into the sides as he pulls himself up and over the top, before dropping down to the other side.

He shrugs, “I did climb a tree in the Amazon. As did you, Captain.” He stretches out his hand then, as if to say _your turn_.

“This is ridiculous,” she says with a shake of her head, and yet she follows him anyway – up and over, fluid and easy.

She lands in a half crouch, before straightening up to find him watching her with a fond smile that disappears just as easily as it came.

He nods back at the wide expansive park behind him, and says once more, “Come on.”

Even at this hour, in this darkness, she thinks it’s rather beautiful. It’s not quite Central Park, but there’s a charm about it. And under the stars, the moonlight reflecting off the calm surface of the small lake, it feels kind of magical.

Her mind runs rampant with the whys and the what’s.

Why did he bring her here? What’s so special about this place?

And she thinks she starts to get an inkling, settling deep in the pit of her stomach when the climbing frames and the swing sets come into view.

The children’s play area is cordoned off by a low-lying fence, and Rip easily clears it. He holds out his hand, and though she doesn’t really need to, she finds herself slipping her hand into his and allowing him to help her over.

He doesn’t let her go, tightens his grip instead as she looks up at him.

But he’s not looking at her, he’s looking around him, eyes drawn to the swings and she can see the memories play out in front of him.

“You used to bring Jonas here,” she says softly, and it isn’t a question.

“I did,” he sighs, “I do, one day in a future that has and hasn’t happened yet.”

The words are tinged with sadness. How could they not be?

She doesn’t understand. Sure, she understands loss, but the loss of a child? She can’t fathom it, and hopes she never has to.

She squeezes his hand.

“Time, huh?”

He breathes out, replies with a nod of his head, understanding the multitude of meanings behind her words as easily as that; “Time, indeed.”

They stand there a moment longer, the thought settling around them before Rip turns to look at her, eyes glittering, as he then says the last thing she would have expected him to: “Race you to the swings, Captain Lance?”

For a moment she’s struck still, too stunned to move at the sudden change in tone, at his casual, playful words. He’s walking backwards away from her, eyebrow raised in challenge, and she looks down at the dirt ground before looking back up at him with an emerging grin.

She doesn’t know what this is, what this is about. But she’s tired of battling herself. And she thinks, maybe for one night, it’s okay for her to fall into his gravity, and just _be._ And so she runs, laughter slipping easily from her lips as she collapses onto the plastic seat, the jangling of the thick metal chains as it strains under her weight and the sudden force of movement disturbing the quiet around them.

He follows after her and she knows he let her win. Especially when he stops there, off to the side, hand resting against the red frame, and he’s looking back again at the rest of the park with a glimpse of the past reflecting off his eyes.

The smile on her face fades, and she wrestles with her next words, but part of her thinks this is why he brought her here in the first place, after all.

“So what was his favourite?”

The question doesn’t need any clarifying.

“He loved the monkey bars, but spent most of his time on the slides. And if he wasn’t on those, then he was out there, kicking around a football.”

She tries to imagine it. Rip as a father, hovering beneath the climbing frames, kicking a ball back and forth. Her heart twists.

“Rip, why did you bring me here?”

Her softly spoken words hang in the air, and for the longest moment he says nothing. Just stands there, breathing in the cold night air, before taking the last few steps to sit himself down on the swing seat beside her. His hands curl around the metal chains either side, his lanky legs too long as he stretches them out in front of him, digging trails into the sand under his feet.

She stops swaying, plants her own feet and comes to a stop.

“This is the first time I’ve been here since.”

The _since_ needs no further explanation.

“I never thought I could . . .”

“Could what?” she asks.

“Oh Sara,” he breathes out with a shake of his head and then he’s turning to look at her. “So many things,” he says.

As if that’s any answer at all.

 _But_ she doesn’t need one. She _knows_.

It’s a fluttering under her skin, the brush of a butterfly’s wings as it flits from one spot to the other and she can’t resist the urge to hold it still in the palm of her hands.

“Like what?” she pushes anyway.

His lips twitch upwards as if he knew those words were coming.

“This place, for one. I never thought I could come back. To stand here where he’d once been, so happy, so alive. I didn’t think I’d ever get here. To a place where I could think about him, remember him without the urge to cry and scream and rage at the world.”

She looks back at him, but he’s looking at those same monkey bars no doubt imagining little Jonas swinging from one to the next. There’s the familiar burning in her gut then, one she’d learnt to quell under his very guidance, and so it’s ironic then that the flames burn brighter on his behalf. If she could murder Vandal Savage again? She’d do it. Nice and agonisingly slow and then maybe over again. And a hundred times more after that.

And somehow it’s as if he’s reading her mind, and she wonders at it, as he turns to say;

“I never thought I’d get to the point where I could think of Savage and feel nothing.”

She shakes her head, “Guess it helps he’s dead now. Can’t hurt anyone else.”

“I suppose that’s part of it.”

He falls silent, and it’s nothing but the slight creaking of metal between them as he twists in his seat to face her.

“There’s a long list of things I never thought I could do again,” he says softly, “and the fact that I can now? It’s because of you, Sara.”

She doesn’t know what to do with that and so she deals with it the only way she knows how – brushes it off with a grin; “Hey, I wasn’t the only one who helped you get Savage remember? Credit where credit’s due.”

He nods, “Ah yes. My dear Legends. I suppose I could credit them with getting me to smile from time to time, laugh occasionally, where the only other option was to cry, of course . . .”

She smiles, remembering the million and one ways the team have managed to rile Rip to the point of him wanting to rip out his own hair in frustration, though the exasperation has always been accompanied by a glimmer of fondness and a little bit of him _never wanting it to be any other way_.

But Rip isn’t finished and his next words freeze her in place;

“But to be able to _love_ again? That’s all you.”

She takes a sharp breath in and looks away.

“Sara . . .”

Her name leaves his lips on a sigh, filled with an unspoken emotion, a longing she recognises, and yet can’t comprehend. She swallows, her mouth dry, tongue stuck, but somehow she manages to speak and keep her voice steady, “If this is about what I said, you know I didn’t actually mean any of it, right?”

“And you know you were wrong, don’t you?”

The fact that he just ignores her denial should bother her more than it does.

But she’s tired. Tired of this.

And maybe now’s the time to be done with it. Have it all out, and then she can leave. Time drift in peace. Wait for the team to come back, if they ever do. Alone. Without him.

And so she does it. Opens her mouth, and admits to a truth that’s been weighing her down for too long.

“So, you’re saying you love me more than I love you, are you?” There’s a hard edge to her words, the challenge implicit.

And he takes it on without even blinking.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

She shakes her head, a laugh spilling from her lips and his eyes widen at the sound.

“No you don’t.”

He actually looks offended, “What do you mean, _no I don’t_? I know how I feel.”

“You can’t.”

“ _I can’t_ ,” he repeats back dumbfounded. “Why not?”

“Because,” she breathes out, blinking hard, pushing back at the frustrated tears that are building, “because you wouldn’t keep leaving us, leaving _me_ if you did. Because you’ve said it yourself. You’ve _only ever needed one._ And you lost her Rip. And I can’t fight a ghost. I can’t.”

And then he’s tugging on her seat, spinning her around to face him, the chains of the swing twisting around above her, her knees brushing his as they sit there.

He leans forward, hand cupping her cheek and turning her towards him. He ducks a little to meet her eyes, and there’s nowhere to hide. For her. Or for him.

“And I’d never expect you to. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Why I brought you here, Sara. I’m telling you, _I’m ready_. I think I have been for some time now, just too afraid because, well, because I didn’t think you felt the same . . . and then . . . _and then_ in New York, when you said . . .” he stops, shakes his head in disbelief, takes a breath and with a smile that makes her think the sun has risen early, “Sara Lance, heaven help me, but _I love you_.”

She bites her bottom lip, shaking her own head, smile blooming, but then he’s brushing his thumb over that same lip, and she stops and stares back at him. And the face that looks back at her is so hopeful, and so afraid, and she knows because she feels it too.

“Yeah?”

He presses his forehead against hers and nods. “And if the argument as to who loves the other more is in contention, then let me put it to rest, here and now, that it is most certainly _me_.”

She opens her mouth to argue the point, but she finds that she can’t because . . .

_Because._

He kisses her then.

A press of his lips against hers, hands cradling her face, fingers slipping under her hat to tangle in her hair and pull her in closer. And despite the cold, she feels every inch of her skin burning. The heat of his mouth, the warmth of his hands as her own hands grip the chains of the swing even tighter because she fears she’ll fall into him if she doesn’t.

But she’s not afraid any more.

She has nothing to fear, she’d fallen long ago, and so she lets go.

Pulls away from his lips and lets go of the chains. His face is one of dazed disappointment and confusion, but then she’s standing up, hovering in front of him as he looks up and the grin on her face must tell him all he needs to know.

Eyes wide, a cautious “Sara . . .” leaves his lips, but she’s already grabbing hold of his swing, and climbing onto his lap, her legs dropping down either side of his waist as the metal chains and frame of the swing creak ominously under the extra weight.

“Sara,” he says again, voice low and she barely suppresses the shiver and it has nothing to do with the cold, “this is a bad idea.”

And yet his hands come around her own waist and he pulls her in tighter against him, and she knows part of it is instinct, balancing their combined weight on the seat so they don’t topple over, but she thinks it’s mostly because he can’t help himself either.

She leans into him, lips scant inches from his own. “What?” she teases, “Just like your idea to get us stranded here?”

His eyes widen, and she gains some satisfaction in having her hunch proven true.

Because talk about coincidences.

Being here. This park. This whole night.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You planned this.”

“I definitely did not plan for you to be sitting here, on my lap, on a swing set, in the middle of a London park. How on Earth would I plan for that? But getting the team to leave us behind so that we could finally talk? Now that would have been an excellent plan, it’s a wonder I didn’t think of it myself.”

She shakes her head, her nose brushing against his, the smirk on his lips softening into a genuine, blissful smile.

One that matches hers as she kisses him again, hands winding their way around his neck, pressing in until all she’s doing is breathing him in.

Neither one letting go of the other.

Not now.

And not ever again.

 

**End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a real struggle to write. I'm not entirely happy with the result to be honest, but if you stuck with it, I thank you, and I hope you enjoyed it anyway :-)


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